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Gwen was right: they had removed her only defense against the world. Cruel world! I hugged poor Betty tight, and she tried to squirm away. I admit, she didn’t seem too upset about the whole thing, but still, it was the principle. No one had asked me first; my parents had no right to maim my pet. I knew something was going to be wrong at home, I just knew it.
    I marched into the kitchen, still holding Betty (by force). Dad had parked himself at the kitchen table. He was dipping his finger into a glass of scotch, tinkling the ice. Mom was atthe stove, wearing a red canvas apron over her business suit, cooking. I was surprised. Mom and Dad had devoted themselves to their law practice: they were partners in their own firm in Manhattan. I grew up on spaghetti and hamburgers and baked chicken. Mom only cooked for special occasions, and this was just a regular Friday night.
    She thrust a wooden spoon into an enormous pot of something, stirred, then turned around to cast one of her brilliant smiles upon me. The smile she claimed made Dad fall in love with her.
    I wouldn’t buy it.
    ‘What did you do to Betty?’
    ‘Hi, sweetheart. Welcome home! I’m making paella,’ Mom said. Mrs Innocent.
    ‘Betty, my cat, she has no claws, if you know what I mean.’
    Dad tinkled his ice.
    ‘Remember Betty?’ I squeezed her pad so her fluffy, clawless paw fanned out.
    ‘Betty’s fine,’ Mom said. ‘It didn’t hurt her. She was destroying the new chairs.’
    Oh, the chairs. ‘Since when is furniture more important than life?’
    ‘It isn’t, dear, we simply made a choice.’
    Choices. Like sending me away to school. Random choices, as far as I could see.
    ‘Ehem.’ It was Gwen, standing behind me, clearing her throat.
    ‘This is my roommate, Gwen,’ I said. ‘Dad said she could come.’
    Mom flashed Dad a look, then said, ‘Welcome! Make yourself at home.’
    She did. Leave it to Gwen. She marched right over to the fridge, opened it, and said, ‘No Tab?’
    ‘Mix some juice with seltzer, dear,’ Mom said. ‘It’s better for you.’
    Gwen shrugged and closed the fridge. She sat with Dad at the table. I released Betty — who skidded out of the room— and joined them. We all watched Mom stir and pour and organize. Her easy movements were like a thread, weaving us together, warming us, tugging back friendship. I wished I hadn’t crashed in so meanly, despite Betty. I should have thought of Mom’s feelings. Obviously this special dinner was for me.
    As I watched her, I realized that Mom looked different somehow. Then it struck me that she had lost a lot of weight. She was never exactly fat, just a little chunky. But now she was thin. She looked tired. Her hair, twisted into the usual chignon, was laced with grey. Cooking, greying, declawing my cat. I had only been gone six weeks. Was Mom suddenly getting old?
    She served a fabulous dinner of big bowls of paella over brown rice, French bread with sweet butter, and salad with olives and tomatoes and cukes and carrots and sprouts, my favorite. We even had dessert: chocolate eclairs from the bakery. The food was incredible! Conversation, though, was just the usual babble. Mom and Dad grilled me about school (with Gwen answering for me half the time), and traded remarks about their business as they happened to spring to mind.
    We were all having a great time, until I asked Dad if he would drive me and Gwen to the movies and then pick us up. He said he couldn’t. He said, ‘I’m going out.’ Out. No explanation. Mom flashed him the meanest look I’d ever seen. That was it, that ended dinner. Dad left, and Mom went upstairs, leaving me and Gwen and clawless Betty with a big mess to clean up. It happened so fast, I didn’t even have a chance to ask Dad where he was going. No one did, not even Mom. Unless she already knew.
    After a while, I went upstairs to see if Mom wanted some ice cream, and her door was closed. They never closed their door unless they were sleeping. I